Like the rest of the house, the air here smelt of roses and vetiver and something darker, more sensual, simmering just beneath the surface. I gave a little sigh of pure delight, wondering if Stoker and I might arrange to have the room to ourselves for just a little while. The bed, I noted, was large and extremely sturdy.
“It’s rather a nice house,” I called to him.
“It bloody well is not,” Stoker contradicted. “It might have escaped your notice, but it is Paddington Station for perverts out there.”
“Perversion is in the eye of the beholder,” I returned mildly. “These are adults free to choose their pastimes. Your judgments are both archaic and unkind.”
Stoker gave an audible snort. “There are men roaming these rooms who pay extortionate amounts of money to have people do extraordinary things to them for purposes of sexual gratification and you are behaving as if it were nothing more than a Sunday picnic by the Serpentine.”
“Prostitution is, not for nothing, the oldest profession, and you are behaving like a provincial. What difference does it make if a person is willing to pay for a service if another, quite obliging, person is agreeable to perform it? It is no different than buying the expertise of a chef or a tailor,” I finished.
“Intimacy should not be transactional,” Stoker said flatly.
“Provincial,” I repeated in a mutter. I opened another drawer to find a series of heavy enameled eggs whose purpose I could only surmise.
“What was that?” Stoker called.
“Nothing,” I called, slamming the drawer closed.
“Honestly, Veronica, what sort of woman are you? You can divest romance from the most intimate of connections and think nothing of it?”
“You are a romantic,” I called back. “Of the incurable variety.”
“You needn’t make it sound as if it were a dread disease,” Stoker retorted, coming to the door to give me a disapproving look. “It is a bloody nice thing that someone around here still believes in things like love and sentiment and—” He broke off, blushing furiously. “I do not know why in the name of Satan’s seraphim I bother.”
He turned on his heel and went back into the bathroom, leaving me to poke about the room, exploring its more esoteric delights. I was about to point out to him that half an hour’s interruption to our investigative activities would not be entirely a dereliction of our duty, but before I could there was a noise from the corridor, a smothered giggle and the sound of a hand groping for the doorknob. I dove into the bathroom, closing the door swiftly behind me just as the door from the corridor opened.
Stoker, standing upright and fully clothed in the dry bathtub, his ear cocked to the ventilator in the wall, gave me a curious glance.
“I say—” he began, but he got no further. I hurled myself at him, clapping my hand firmly over his mouth. I jerked my head towards the bedroom and he gave a nod, taking my meaning at once.
Through the closed door we could hear the clink of champagne glasses and the rumble of voices, a man and a woman, I thought. There were merry laughs and a few groans and then the distinctive creak of bedsprings. I put my eye to the keyhole and saw our new acquaintance, Mr. Hilliard. He was undressed to his long underwear, flannel and striped. His moustaches were quivering with anticipation as a lady garbed as Helen of Troy strapped his hands together and picked up a small cat-o’-nine-tails. He gave a happy little sigh and turned himself over, derriere upwards, his face in the pillows.
I turned away before the first blow fell but I heard the singing of the little whip as it arced through the air and the sharp smack of the leather against the flannel-draped flesh. There was a happy sigh and his companion gave a brisk instruction. “Now, if ever it gets too much, you’ve only to say, love.”
I pantomimed to Stoker the identity of the fellow being soundly disciplined in the next room and he rolled his eyes again. He gestured fiercely, suggesting we leave, but I shook my head. If he meant to eavesdrop on Madame Aurore’s meeting, we would have to keep ourselveshid away in our porcelain prison. I removed my hand from his mouth, giving him a wary look.
He cocked his head, then put his lips to my ear, causing the pulse in my throat to quicken. “We might venture a whisper. They seem mightily distracted.”
More blows and moans, louder now, along with Mr. Hilliard’s cries of encouragement to his tormentor. I looked around the bathroom, admiring the porcelain fittings, the bright brass fixtures, beautifully modern and highly polished. Stoker made a brisk gesture with his fingers and I realized he was hearing something through the ventilator. I gathered up my cloak and joined him in the bath, pressing my cheek to the metal grille. The voices were muffled—and it was not easy to hear anything with the frankly exuberant noises coming from the adjoining bedroom—but I could just make them out. One of them—Madame Aurore, I surmised—spoke a few indistinct words. A male voice countered, speaking quickly and with some vigor.
“Whoever he is, he’s angry,” I murmured. I shifted a little, attempting to get more comfortable. The sides of the bath were angled, throwing us awkwardly together, with my back pressed to Stoker’s front so that we could both listen through the ventilator.
Stoker nodded, his chin brushing my temple. From the other room, Mr. Hilliard had achieved some sort of resolution to his excitement, culminating in a series of high yelps, like the bark of a fox. I worried for a moment that he and his companion might avail themselves of the room where we were concealed, but after only a moment, distinctive noises resumed and I realized they were bent on another bout of congress.
Stoker and I returned our attention to the ventilator. The discussion upstairs continued for some minutes, the woman’s voice even and calm as the man’s voice continued to rage. I heard the pop of a cork and the sharp, bright clink of crystal.
“A toast,” Stoker whispered, his mouth touching the edge of my ear.
I shifted uncomfortably, flexing my ankles to try to get the feeling back into my feet.
“Do stop that,” he ordered in a harsh whisper, his hands suddenly firm on my hips as he gripped them, forcing me to stand still.
“I cannot help it,” I protested. “I am half numb from the cold porcelain.”
He made no reply but turned to listen again, shaking his head after a long moment.
“I think they have finished,” he began.
